somewhere near the nuclear power plant,
a young thing (not ready to remove those green tights)
observes the peach coloured flame of twin platoons from her window.
they burn at the base of the coffinlid like saliva to raw sugar, uncaring
that soon our sun will bleach it all away & have her
adoring minnesota

but only in the mornings, when
its mint walls and all cherry panels filled with sky.
because she knows, if she lies down flat enough she will
only catch a hint of sherburne roof tops and
fatefully begin her anticipation

for the hammering of sparkling nails deep into to dark purple.